


Surrender

by hello_mintblooms



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin (2019)
Genre: Choking, Consensual Sex, Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kissing, Married Sex, Painplay, Romantic Relationship, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Slapping, Spanking, Whipping, dom! jafar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-06-29 05:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19823218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_mintblooms/pseuds/hello_mintblooms
Summary: Whether in a High Council meeting or in the privacy of his own chambers, Jafar has always enjoyed being in control. Which is precisely why, after weeks apart, he intends to give his wife a gift that she will likely never forget.





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to preface this by saying that I have never written anything like this in my life. This here is more of an experiment than anything, as I wanted to try writing something outside my comfort zone. PLEASE LOOK AT THE TAGS BEFORE READING. This fic is definitely not for everyone, so please keep yourselves safe. Thank you for all your support thus far!

The palace halls are clothed in a startling darkness as you tread soundlessly across carpeted floors. Light typically bathes the corridors at this time of night, but the lanterns are extinguished, causing you to question why this may be. It doesn't bother you too much, not really, because you know these halls as well as you know the man which you seek.

As you traverse through the endless labyrinth of each spacious floor, it dawns on you precisely how long it has been since you have walked through this place. It could not be helped; the Sultan had asked you to oversee a new business venture in a nearby kingdom, and no one else would go in your stead. Usually it would have been the vizier's duty to attend to such matters, but he is being kept busy by other dilemmas at home which require his immediate attention. As more time passes, it is becoming clearer to you that the kingdom would be sunk to ruin within days without him.

Excitement flickers through you as your mind conjures a vision of shadowy eyes lit by icy embers. The prospect of seeing those eyes roaming your face again, after so much time, has you completely weak.

You reach the seventh floor and pause before a simple wooden door. Your fingers reach for the brass handle at precisely the moment in which the door swings open of its own accord. Peering into the room, you expect to see the same darkness which blankets the corridors, but there is no such thing. Instead, you are met by two candle stubs on a low table which just barely illuminate the room. A gasp leaves your throat as a shadow dances across the walls and tugs you inside. The door shuts behind you and you find yourself being pressed firmly against it by a body which you know all too well.

Heat cocoons your skin as familiar hands cover your hips possessively. His lips find yours in the near-darkness, kissing you with a feverish need that tastes of deepest longing and the love of a man who has spent much too long without his heart's desire. The scrape of his beard against your skin leaves you breathless.

"I have missed you dearly," says Jafar. "I was beginning to wonder whether you would return at all." His voice wraps you in a delicious confection of honey and wine. It is a voice which rushes straight to your head and down between your thighs.

"Have you?" You skim your fingertips over his cheek, noting the manner in which he leans into your touch. A terror he may be in Agrabah, but when you are alone like this, he is as docile as a kitten. That is your power over him, and he cannot say he minds that you know it.

His lips tug into a smile as your eyes land on two crimson points in the corner of the room, and you know that it is his serpent staff, a reminder that he, too, holds power here.

If someone had told you three years ago that you would be married to the Grand Vizier of Agrabah, you would have laughed in their face and spit on them for their trouble. Because who would possibly be able to love such a man?

You could, apparently. You _do_.

"You know I have." His arms encircle your waist, crushing your body to his as he ghosts a string of kisses over your jaw, your neck. This is when you notice his shoulders are bare. He wears nothing but a simple pair of white linen trousers. "Care to hear all the ways in which I have missed you?"

You offer him a wry smile, closing your eyes against the sensation of his lips trailing over your skin. "Indulge me. How have you missed me?"

He draws back, studying you through a gaze so heated you're sure it has the power to melt the very flesh off your bones. He probably could achieve exactly that if he wanted to. Both his hands reach to greedily cover your breasts through the fabric of your dress, and he squeezes hard, forcing you to bite back a gasp. His voice is a deadly whisper. "You know what I have missed the most?" he asks, tongue darting out to trace the shape of your lips indecently. "I have missed waking up to you in my bed after spending the night between your thighs, listening to that pretty voice of yours begging me to touch you in the most obscene of ways." A whimper escapes you, and his lips are suddenly at your ear, hands gripping your waist in a reminder that you belong to him and no one else. "But perhaps what I miss most are your desperate screams as I fill you, my name on your tongue each and every time."

" _Jafar_." You are practically quivering in his grip, your imagination flooded with each and every act that his voice artfully crafts for you.

The tenderness in his laughter causes warmth to flood your face and pool somewhere below. "Yes, just like that. I did not think it would take so little to have you saying my name like _that_."

You have no response, because he's not wrong. The longer you stand here like this, his darkened eyes locked firmly with yours, the more you wish for him to pin you down and use your body for his pleasure however he sees fit. You have missed him—his voice, his touch, his quiet presence in a room—but more than anything you have missed his body moving against yours as he tells you he loves you in the only way he knows how.

Jafar's fingers wander to your neck and begin pressing gently at the base of your throat. You know immediately where this is going before he even says the words, and you are almost grateful to him for not making you tell him precisely what it is you want. He already sees the truth skimming across your face, and he intends to give you all that you desire. He _will_ give you what you desire, just so he can prove he can.

"What do you say?" he asks. "Do you wish to?"

With Jafar as your husband, you have come to learn that you enjoy the pain he inflicts just as much as the pleasure. Oh, he never harms you, never without your express permission. His idea of pain has typically consisted of a few carefully placed bruises to your neck, a sharp slap or two to your thighs, but never anything more than that.

Which is precisely why he had gaped at you uselessly like an imbecile the first time that you had asked him to strike you in a moment of passion. You couldn't blame him; you would have had the same reaction, and it's not as if you had spoken frankly about such a thing before that particular moment. The fact of the matter is that Jafar brings out desires in you that you didn't even know you had, and relinquishing control to him just happens to be one of them.

"Yes," you tell him, gaze pinned to his lips. His mouth hovers close to yours, so close that you could close the distance between you with no effort on your part. His fingers curl tighter around your throat.

"Are you certain?" He always asks twice, just to be sure. To give you the opportunity to change your mind. With him, there is always a chance to turn back, even when he's already buried deeply inside you. This is one thing that you will always love about Jafar: he has always given you choice.

"I'm certain. Do you as wish."

Jafar tangles his free hand into your hair, tugging just hard enough to tilt your head slightly back. "If at any time, for any reason you wish for me to stop, use your word." This had been part of the deal when you had actually sat down to discuss this. You would give him your body to inflict upon whatever he wished, but in exchange, you would alert him the moment he went too far or you simply changed your mind. He makes sure to remind you of this each and every time, ensuring that you feel safe with him. "Do you understand?"

"I understand," you tell him. It has always been important to him to hear you say it, to voice out loud that you want this. "Now touch me. _Hurry_."

He smirks, the hand around your throat blocking any remaining air from reaching your lungs. "Do you enjoy being treated like a common whore?" His whisper is deadly against your ear, a subtle promise hidden in the crevices of his words.

You can focus on little else but the sensation of his fingers wrapped around your throat, and so you whimper, hoping that this will suffice.

But it is not enough, and he remains still, his blackened eyes boring into yours and a sharp grin curving over his face. The pressure against your neck lifts, but just barely.

"Yes," you murmur.

Jafar's hand instantly tightens around your neck, pinning your head to the wall with a sudden force that sends an endless pleasure whipping through your body.

"I'm afraid you'll have to speak up." His forehead touches yours. "Yes, _what_?"

You swallow, though it is nearly impossible with his fingers wrapped so tightly around you. "Yes," you manage to choke out, your fear mingling with the anticipation of what he will do next. His unpredictable manner has always been half the fun. "Yes, master."

The grin stretches wider as his hand is replaced by his lips, grazing the skin at your throat. "Much better." Your breath comes out in gasps as you feel his tongue sweeping over you. "Perhaps you would like a reward?"

Your silence fills the room, and not because you have nothing to say. Outside this room, you have words to match each and every snapping remark that passes through Jafar's lips. But here? Here you prefer to have him pry the words from your mouth, taking pleasure in the sting of his hands when your silence displeases him. This is the game you play, and he knows you play it remarkably well.

His laughter is low, teeming with a drop of darkness. It is as if he is able to read your thoughts, though you have been through this same song and dance before, and he has learned each note and step well. "If you will not speak, then it seems I must decide for you."

He tears himself away from you, going to sit on a chaise perched flush to the wall at the back of the room. Beckoning you forward with a single sweep of his finger, you place one foot in front of the other, legs trembling as you approach him. There is hardly any expression on Jafar's face, but his eyes are blackened by lust, and you know without a doubt that you will bend to each and every one of his whims, no matter the price.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, an excruciating heat building between your thighs as you behold him sitting there like a king about to greet his subjects. His body is hard, the muscles of his bare torso rippling with every breath he takes. How you long to run your hands over his golden skin, to press your lips against him, to worship him in the way that only he deserves.

"Undress," he barks. "Slowly. Look only at me and do _not_ look away."

With shaking fingers, you reach for the ties at your waist, hooking your fingers in the fabric and pulling it away. Your heart thunders as you begin undoing the laces at the front of your dress, Jafar's gaze assessing each of your movements. His eyes never leave your face and only do so when you begin to pull open the garment that shields your body from view.

"Slower," he hisses. "Go slower."

You will your hands to slow, but it is impossible with his eyes burning through your skin in a way that suggests he is preparing to completely devour you. The dress falls to the floor. All that are left are your undergarments, a stark white against the array of colors you have just rid yourself of.

It is when you skim your fingertips over the tight material at your breasts that Jafar hooks his thumbs into his trousers and slides them down to his ankles, kicking them off completely. Your eyes land on the dark hair at his navel, forcing your gaze lower to where his hardness stands, thick and swollen.

Blood boiling and breath ragged, you watch him wrap a hand around himself, eyes staring right into you. You imagine him in your mouth, his hips moving back and forth and making you choke.

"Did I stutter?" His voice is hard, interrupting your momentary daydream. Perhaps if you do as he says, that daydream will be your reality. "Get undressed. _Now_."

You obey, unhooking the material concealing your breasts. It falls silently to the floor. Jafar does not move the hand at his groin, but simply stares at you, shaking you to the very core. You can feel yourself growing slick, and he is not even touching you. He has always had that ability—the ability to caress you with his eyes and make you wish you were pinned beneath him and at his utter mercy.

He is an expert at keeping his emotions under lock and key, but his soft intake of breath as he watches you standing there, breasts bared to him, tells you that even he is not immune to the sight of a woman who belongs entirely to him. You reach for the fabric concealing your hips, but he pins you with a look, stopping you.

"Come here."

You force yourself to move, and he immediately tugs you face-first onto his lap, his hand smoothing over your backside as he removes the remaining fabric which conceals your body.

There is no warning when the first blow comes.

His hand cracks against your rear, the sound singing high throughout the room. That first hit forces a choked sob to rush from your lips, and it is quickly followed by another. You feel the wetness between your thighs growing with each strike of his hand.

He stops, gently caressing the places where he has marked you. He is giving you a chance to say no, to say the word that will put an end to this blissful agony. But you will not tell him to stop because you do not want him to.

His fingers find your wetness, and he skims his fingers over you, causing you to spread your legs wider as he rubs slow, purposeful circles over you.

"It seems you require punishment, wouldn't you agree?" He removes his fingers and snaps his hand hard against your backside, grabbing handfuls of the reddened flesh after the fact. "Speak up, or you will get nothing more from me."

"I do," you choke out. "Please Jafar, I—"

His hand connects with your skin again, flames licking at your center. "Please, _what_?"

"Master. Please, _master_."

You stand, ready to push yourself to your knees where you belong, but Jafar lightly touches your wrist, stopping you where you stand. He takes the chaise and drags it in front of the rectangular mirror by the bed. Other than the bed, it is likely the most expensive item in this room, having been a gift from Jafar himself. You recall spending at least an hour before it each morning, applying rouge to your cheeks and weaving strands of your hair together before being greeted by your husband—a husband who is now pulling you forcefully by the hand to the chaise. He pushes you down to your knees and spreads your legs wide. Your hands grip the wooden frame, hardly daring to believe that he means to do what he's suggesting. 

You watch him moving behind you through the reflection in the mirror, following his body as he reaches for something you cannot see. Within seconds, he produces a long strip of leather, and you recognize it as one of the belts which he wears on the days when he's not in his vizier's robes, which is a rarity. Your eyes go round and catch his in the mirror. His smirk is wicked and deadly, and you're almost certain you could find release in that filthy smile alone.

"This may sting a bit." His fingertips trail a path over your rear, stopping to rest at the junction of your thighs. "But do not fret, I am sure you will learn to enjoy it in time."

The belt cracks against your backside, and the first snap of the leather against your skin is nothing short of a delectable torture. You close your eyes against the stinging pain, the impact vibrating throughout your body and going straight to your center. You feel his hand twisting through your hair, forcefully tilting your head back.

"You are to look at me," he hisses. "Don't you _dare_ close your eyes again, do you understand me?"

All you can do is stare at him, your lips parted and body aching for his hands, for any sensation he is willing to bestow upon you.

He winds his fingers deeper into your hair, pulling so hard that fire licks at your scalp. " _Do you understand me?_ "

"Yes," you rasp. "Yes, I understand."

He releases his hold on your hair and resumes his position behind you. This time you heed his commands, looking at nowhere except into his eyes. He betrays nothing, but the daggered smile tugging at his lips suggests that he is enjoying every second of this.

The belt comes down again, this lash harder than the first. You whimper, tears pricking at your eyes as you look at Jafar in the mirror. He laughs. The bastard has the nerve to _laugh_. You both love and hate him for the manner in which he is able to reduce you to a crying, needy mess.

Instead of going for a third lash, he stops, stroking your tender, reddened skin with gentle hands. Always making sure you want this, always making sure you know you can stop him at any time. One word and he will take you into his arms and trail kisses all over your body while cradling you tenderly to his side.

But you will not relent. You will not tell him no. You have no desire to deny him anything.

"I want to hear you," he purrs, hands like a feather over your sore flesh. "I want to hear you loud and clear. I want you to scream for me, and I want you to cry. Beg me— _beg_ for me to make it stop."

Your breath catches in your throat at the heat you hear in his voice, see in his eyes. Even through the mirror, you can see that heat scorching you, melting your insides to liquid fire and unravelling you from the inside out.

So this is how it will be. This is the game he wishes to play. You almost laugh, but stop yourself at the thought of what he will do if he sees. You want it, want the pain which he inflicts, but you want it on your terms, which is exactly what he is offering to give.

Jafar doesn't wait. The belt snaps against your rear over and over, a stinging song that plays repeatedly against your ruined flesh. Your gasps and cries echo around the room, shrill and pleading for him to stop, to give you one small sliver of mercy. You scream his name, each whip against your skin causing the slickness at your center to grow. If only he would touch you, if only he would allow you to touch yourself.

His eyes are hard in the mirror, but they never leave your face, even as he does his worst. You know that he finds you most beautiful like this, tears staining your cheeks, face flushed, and his name upon your lips in strangled cries. The belt continues to descend, and you can feel your skin beginning to split, raw and cracked from the violence he doles out. You wish you could see what he's done. You'll certainly feel it for days to come, if not weeks.

You close your eyes, and it is here that Jafar deals a blow so forceful that it has you sobbing in earnest, your knees trembling on impact. You are suddenly grateful that he has allowed you the small mercy of kneeling.

"Tell me how much it hurts." His voice is measured, calm as it always is, but you can hear it cracked and fraying at the edges. "Tell me how much you enjoy the pain."

"I—I don't—please stop." You don't mean it. You never mean it. You only say it because you know it affects him just as much as it affects you.

Without so much as a warning, he slides a finger against your wetness, just barely pushing inside. "Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better."

He draws back and resumes his torture upon your skin, your screams magnified a thousand-fold. Throughout it all, Jafar's voice floats through your ears, making delectably filthy promises of what he intends to do to you momentarily. You can hardly focus on his voice, but it is what keeps you grounded to earth through the blur of immense pain he deals upon your body. Fingers gripping the chaise in front of you, you nearly crumple to the floor, unable to find the strength to remain upright through your tears and constant begging. You can barely see him through the fog which clouds your vision.

He stops, the sound of your sniffling and sobs filling the room. "Please stop," you plead. "I can't take anymore, please I—"

" _Quiet_."

You watch him in the mirror, and Jafar spreads your legs as far as they will go. He takes hold of his length and drags himself gently back and forth between your thighs. He looks you directly in the face. Unashamed and unperturbed—this is the man you have come to know and love.

"How shall I take you, dearest one? Shall it be like this, from behind, on your knees, or perhaps..." He trails off, tracing lazy circles on your wounds and making you wince. "Or shall it be on your back, watching those tears slip over that pretty face of yours as I take what's mine?"

Your lips part with desire, and you can feel your wetness becoming unbearable. You can't say that you would mind if he takes you right here, right now, on the cold, hard floor like some worthless whore. You certainly enjoy playing the part for him.

He is quiet, and you realize he is surveying you through the mirror, waiting for an answer. Choice—he is giving you choice. The choice to decide how he will humiliate you, or the choice to bring you both back to reality. You know precisely which one you will make.

"You—you should take me in whichever manner you desire."

He smirks, sending shockwaves over your skin. "Good girl. I always knew I could count on you to tell me exactly what I wish to hear."

He drags you up by the wrist and onto the bed where you lay beneath him, trapped in the iron cage that is his body. His breath is but a purr rumbling against the shell of your ear, blanketing you in a honeyed warmth. He barely touches you, but you know that he wants to, although he won't. He intends to make this experience as agonizing as possible.

"Do you enjoy being used, dearest? Perhaps next time I might have the sense to share you." His tongue flicks out against your cheek, tasting the trail of tears which stain your skin. These words send a thrill humming through your body. "Perhaps you would enjoy being taken by another as I watch, pleading for me to take you instead."

Jafar's words are empty, because over his dead body would he ever willingly allow another man to touch you. Still, if you asked, if it was what you desired, he would give it to you without hesitation. As it stands, he knows precisely which words to use to send you over the edge, and you wish nothing more than to touch him, to feel the heat of his skin against yours. With quivering fingers, you reach to lay a hand over his hip. The back of his hand meets your cheek with a sharp snap the moment you make contact.

"Touch me again and it will be the other cheek," he utters through gritted teeth.

You bite back a whine, your skin stinging with knives from where he has slapped you. His hardness presses firmly between your thighs, the pain wracking your bottom in endless waves. Jafar molds your hips to his hands before pushing himself inside you. There is no gentleness, no warning, no time to adjust. You cry out, feeling his thickness filling you, stretching you and finally satisfying the desire that has been trapped within all this time. It is a painful stretch, but this is what you wanted. To be used, to be loved—it makes no difference, for here and now, they are one and the same.

Seeing you close your eyes, Jafar cracks his hand against your other cheek, making good on his earlier threat even though you have not touched him. "Open," he grunts. "Keep those pretty eyes open. I want you to look at me as I destroy you."

His hands wrap around your throat as he rams into you, and this is where you know you will unravel. Each stroke of him inside you is slow, deep, and he takes his time to ensure that you can feel every inch of him filling your body. He pulls completely out, then pushes himself back in with a force that rips a near-scream from your throat. You shut your eyes tight, and he is so lost in the feeling of your warmth around him that he simply lacks the strength to punish you for it.

"That's it," he moans. Sweat coats his forehead. "Say my name, _scream_ it. Let me hear who you belong to."

You do. His name is the only word you know.

And then he spills himself inside you, his voice whispering endless strings of 'I love yous,' promises that you are everything to him, that you have his heart, that everything will be alright. "It's alright, it's alright." His breath is hot at your ear, against your cheek, at your mouth as his hands skim over the length of your body. His touch has never been more tender. "You are alright. Look at me, you are alright."

You finally open your eyes against the barrage of tears you had tried to hold in, and you crumble, salt-water marring your cheeks and your throat tight.

Jafar takes your face in his hands, kissing first your forehead, then your nose, and finally each cheek. He takes his time here, allowing his lips to wipe away any last trace of tears. "Did I go too far?" he asks, fear soaking his words. "Forgive me. I did not think—"

You lay your hand atop his, shaking your head. Your smile seems to lay to rest some of his worries, but his shoulders are still tense. "No," you tell him. "You were perfect. Perfect and unpredictable as always."

His lips tug upwards. "You enjoy _unpredictable_ , do you?" Your own smile grows. "We'll see what manner of unpredictability we can get up to next time. For now..." He rolls off you, going to pluck a small tin off the low table at the foot of the bed. "Lie down. Face-first."

You shift your body as asked, and you immediately feel Jafar's hands dabbing a generous amount of cold salve over your ruined skin. He is as gentle as can be, though his touch quickly turns firm, wanting to ensure that the salve is absorbed quickly. His movements cause you to wince, for the deep sting of the wounds he has inflicted force a tremor to rock through you. He stills, then resumes his work.

You cannot help the affection swelling within you for this man. What he does now is so simple, necessary even, but his every touch warms every corner of your heart, confirming yet again that you had made the correct choice in binding yourself to him.

"Finished." You roll onto your back, seeing a shadow pass over his features. His gaze takes in the light red marks on your cheeks. "I shall ask the servants to fetch a cold cloth."

You roll your eyes. "I'm _fine_. You coddle me too much. Come to bed." You pat the empty space next to you, lifting the sheets as you do. He sits, albeit reluctantly.

"As you are very well aware, it is my responsibility to ensure that my wife not only enjoys what we do behind closed doors, but is well taken care of after the fact." His fingers lace with yours, and you take this opportunity to pull him to your side despite his grumbling protests. You laugh at the sour expression on his face.

"Oh come on, Jafar. I'm perfectly fine. Content, happy, satisfied. Married to the man of my dreams... What more could I possibly ask for?"

His brow lifts, an amused chuckle escaping him. "The man of your dreams, you say? Because if I recall correctly, the first time we met you told me that I belonged in your worst nightmares. And you did this in front of twelve High Council members, if memory serves."

You laugh before crushing your mouth to his, feeling his smile against your lips. "Times have changed, my vizier."

"That they have."

His voice is edged in darkness, cementing the fact that this is home— _he_ is home—and you would have it no other way.


End file.
